I got up and hugged first his dad and then his mom, who held on to me too tight, like Gus used to, squeezing my shoulder blades.
They both looked so old—their eye sockets hollowed, the skin sagging from their exhausted faces.
They had reached the end of a hurdling sprint, too. “He loved you so much,” Gus’s mom said.
“He really did. It wasn’t—it wasn’t puppy love or anything,” she added, as if I didn’t know that.
“He loved you so much, too,” I said quietly. It’s hard to explain, but talking to them felt like stabbing and being stabbed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And then his parents were talking to my parents—the conversation all nodding and tight lips.
I looked up at the casket and saw it unattended, so I decided to walk up there.
I pulled the oxygen tube from my nostrils and raised the tube up over my head, handing it to Dad.
I wanted it to be just me and just him. I grabbed my little clutch and walked up the makeshift aisle between the rows of chairs.
The walk felt long, but I kept telling my lungs to shut up, that they were strong, that they could do this.
I could see him as I approached: His hair was parted neatly on the left side in a way that he would have found absolutely horrifying,
and his face was plasticized. But he was still Gus. My lanky, beautiful Gus.
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